Roam: Chapter 01
Roam: Chapter 01 Characters * [[1817 Pagnal's Cortisy Juctor|'Pagnal's Cortisy Juctor']] * [[2669 Venitsal the Deserter|'Venitsal the Deserter']] * [[2671 Black Benabba|'Black Benabba']] * [[2673 Norbil|'Norbil']] * Lugil * Cloval Locations * The Underbelly * Lugil's Inn * Venitsal's Office Contents Pagnal's Cortisy Juctor Cortisy hugged her rough woollen stola around herself, bracing against the chill winds and groping eyes of the Underbelly. Her nose beneath her veil was pinched red, and she allowed herself an unrefined sniff to draw the water back up away from her top lip, hoping that the whistling of the wind and the reluctant cracks of taut ropes might cover her immodesty as she picked out her way through the gloom. She didn’t know how people could live like this, with drips from the slimy stone overhead (or worse) forming puddles on the wooden patchwork beneath their feet, softening the already precarious excuse for ground that she was being forced to rely upon. Occasionally, as she followed the directions which had seemed so simple before she had come down here, she caught a glimpse through the gaps in the floorboards of the five hundred foot drop below her – of the sunlight on the actual ground – and had to force herself to ignore it, else she might wonder why in the world she had come down here at all. Similarly, she had to ignore the few faces that she could make out in the meagre lamplight, each peering right through her veil with the very same question: what are you doing here? You don’t belong here. If only they knew how wrong they were. If only they knew their impudence. She was Pagnal’s Cortisy Juctor, direct descendant of the god of justice and order. She was daughter of the current Consul and wife to two former Consuls. She had been Wife of Roam at just fifteen. They did not belong here, in the shadows of the greatest city in the world. The entire Underbelly was a parasite, clinging to Semural’s splendour as it made its eternal voyage, and every one of these people inhabiting its dark alleys owed their existence to her and her ancestors. She was beginning to doubt her way – or rather, the accuracy of the directions which that slave had procured for her – when her eyes found the sign that they had been searching for, lit pathetically by two moribund candles: Lugil’s, flanked by two amateurish paintings of what she had been informed were Straequian war dogs. The door beneath the sign was simple and unassuming, and she set her shoulders as she pushed it open with her forearm, not anticipating its weight. The murmur of the (surprisingly well-lit) inn fell away as she entered. Despite it being the middle of the day, it was inhabited by several patrons, every neck twisting to follow her measured movements as she closed the door firmly behind her and stepped to the bar. The men at the games table stood up, leaning on their poles and glancing at one another. Men. They were all men, except the old dogs curled up at the end of the bar. Were women not welcome here? She had assumed that down here, with no laws, that such social distinctions would be similarly lax, but if she railed against such bollocks up on Roam, she certainly wasn’t going to be cowed by it down here. The barman almost looked like a caricature of a Straequian, with his broad, long forehead and thick eyebrows. Somehow, he was wearing short sleeves – although it was actually less draughty in the inn than on the way there – most likely to display his impressive (and hairy) arms, and the tattoo displayed prominently on his shoulder marking him out as a veteran of the third legion, although Cortisy couldn’t narrow down his age beyond the wrinkles or the greys clustering at his temples to determine which war he might have fought in, if any. “Are you lost, my lady?” he asked, the first words anyone had said since her entrance. “This is Lugil’s Inn?” she asked in reply, conscious of her own accent for the first time in her life; his was soft, but still clearly Straequian, with its throaty vowels. “Yes, my lady,” he said. Why did he keep calling her that? It was most frustrating. “I’m Lugil. Can I help you?” She worked her tongue around under her bottom lip, uncomfortable with the level of attention their conversation was receiving. She turned her head from side to side, her veil swishing lightly across her stola at her breastbone. The barman was astute enough to take a hint and gestured with one rough hand for the other patrons to mind to their own business. Eyes sloped off the two of them, although she had no doubt that ears failed to follow. She waited for conversations to pick back up, and the sound of balls clacking on the games table to resume. The unfortunate looking man sat at the bar beside her gave an outstanding display of not being interested, suddenly transfixed by the patterns in the foam atop his beer. Cortisy tilted her head patiently. “Fuck off for a minute, Cloval, would you?” Lugil said, affectionately patting his patron’s forearm. Cloval gave his innkeeper an accomplished expression conveying surprise, confusion and hurt for a second before lifting his fascinating beer and hoving off to a more welcoming corner. “Thank you,” Cortisy inclined her head graciously. “What can I do for you, my lady?” Lugil asked. “I’m looking for a man. A slave hunter by the name of Venitsal,” she said, quietly but firmly. “Ah,” Lugil said, straightening up. “The deserter.” “The deserter?” Cortisy asked. “It’s what they call him,” Lugil shrugged. “It’s what you call him, it would seem,” Cortisy said. “Why?” “I can’t recall, to be honest with you, my lady,” he said, defensive in response to her tone. She chided herself, remembering that she was supposed to be in disguise, despite his insistence on assuming her superior social standing. “It’s not my place to say, anyway.” “Is her here?” she asked. “Venitsal?” “Oh, you have the right place, certainly,” he assured her. “He rents those rooms over there,” he jerked a thumb towards a closed doorway off to one side of the wooden box in which they were stood, “but he’s out right this minute. You’re welcome to wait for him here. A drink perhaps, to whet your stone?” Cortisy considered the offer. She could perhaps use a drink to steady her a bit, but didn’t trust anything (or anyone, for that matter) in this place not to blind or poison her. Even the water would probably be scraped off the lichen-spotted ceiling. Besides, she had brought no money. “No, thank you,” she smiled politely. Lugil made an inadequate effort to seem not too disgruntled. “Norbil might be in, now that I think about it,” Lugil frowned, scratching at his hairy forearm. “Cloval, is Norbil in?” he called out to the table where Cloval’s face was illuminated by a candle. “I think so,” the man said. His face was, for all of its faults, definitely Roaman in its intentions. “Shall I check?” “Be a good lad,” Lugil gestured to a table near the door to Venitsal’s room. “Please, take a seat, my lady.” “Thank you,” she suppressed a curtsy and walked over to the indicated table, blocking out the creaking of the floorboards as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She had made progress, of a sort; it would be nice if she could feel just a little bit at ease with her – and it was wholly hers – decision to come down here. Was it worth taking such a risk for what could be such little gain? She could just go on with her whole life without ever coming close to a risk – without ever risking the mother of her beautiful son – but she had a mind under this veil, and knew herself, and knew how she would never forgive herself in that risk-free life for not having come here, or for leaving now. As she took her seat, a simple wooden chair, Cloval brought a young man out from the door beside her. He was quite handsome – certainly for down here – perhaps a few years older than her, with blond curls just spilling over his ears. He held out both hands palm down, beseeching her not to stand up to greet him, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. He drew another chair out from under the table and sat down. “Norbil,” he pressed his hand to his chest, placing the other flat on the table. “I’m Venitsal’s junior associate. He’s currently out on a case, but should be back shortly.” Cortisy sidestepped her own introduction. “How long is shortly?” Norbil smiled in what he must have known from experience was a reassuring manner. “Within the hour, most definitely. Perhaps you would care for a drink? Tea?” She shook her head, her veil tickling the end of her nose. “Perhaps a game of cut-throat?” came a voice from beside her that made her start. Cloval was hovering over them, his no doubt welcoming grin quite ghastly. “I can teach you how to play, girl.” “Cloval, please”, Norbil turned his smile onto their unexpected companion. “Give the lady some space.” “Space,” nodded Cloval, muttering the word to himself as he drifted further off. Norbil didn’t seem inclined to speak, so the two sat patiently, an activity at which Cortisy had more practice than perhaps any other. The patrons seemed to have lost interest in Cortisy, and the close air was filled with the sounds of their ball games, money changing hands at cards, and conversations in languages Cortisy had never heard before – either Provincial tongues or perhaps even from beyond the borders of the Republic. Occasionally one or other of the dogs whined sleepily and rolled over. “What is a junior associate?” Cortisy asked Norbil playfully. He turned to her as from a deep reverie, betraying no offence at the potentially irreverent question. “Do you make a lot of tea?” “While my tea-making skills are certainly in high demand,” he replied, his eyes twinkling, “I assist Venitsal in a variety of ways. Four eyes and two mouths at finding our quarries than two and one.” “I suppose two minds don’t hurt either,” Cortisy nodded. “I’m only a junior associate,” Norbil shook his head dismissively, “not a partner. Venitsal does pretty much all of the thinking. He has years of experience which have granted him a fine intuition. He will find your missing slave, I guarantee it.” “So, he knows how to think like a slave?” Cortisy asked, studying Norbil’s face closely. “I don’t believe I said that,” Norbil smiled accommodatingly. They fell back into silence. Cortisy watched the men across the inn playing what she assumed was cut-throat. Three players seemed to be taking turns to prod balls around a tabletop, although she was having a hard time determining what their motives where. “The last player with any balls left on the table wins, you see,” came Cloval’s voice, and she resisted a shudder. “So each player has the choice of allying with the player that follows them to attack the third player’s balls, but they have to trust that their ally won’t betray them and join forces against them in turn. Or you can try and play your own balls to safety, though it’s often more of a risk than it seems…” “Cloval!” Lugil the barman called over, allowing a hint of edge into his voice. “Leave the lady alone.” “She looked interested!” Cloval protested, his mug running over slightly as he swung it back between Cortisy and the games table she had been admiring. “Go pester a whore, if you want someone to play with your balls,” Lugil said. “Leave my customers alone.” “She isn’t your customer,” Cloval pointed out, tapping his drink with two fingers. “She hasn’t bought a drink. You never let people in who don’t buy a drink!” “I let in who I like,” Lugil placed both hands on the bar, the wood creaking under his weight as his arms tensed, “and I kick out who I like.” “Fine, fine!” Cloval wandered off again, muttering about how he was only being friendly. “Sorry about him, my lady,” said Lugil. “He’s harmless.” “No apology necessary,” Cortisy assured the innkeeper with a smile she hoped carried outside her veil. The innkeeper offered an open palm regardless, then busied himself elsewhere. Cortisy turned back to look at Norbil, who was still wearing that accommodating smile, which in truth was beginning to unnerve her slightly. She could not afford to be away for too long. Venitsal the Deserter Venitsal was troubled. Dead slaves were no use to him. Dead slaves were no use to anybody. But dead slaves were all he seemed to find these days. Masters didn’t want him to find them dead slaves; they wanted their slaves back alive, often so that they could kill them themselves. Unhappy masters didn’t pay well, and they certainly didn’t spread the word about him – or worse, warned people to avoid him. And when masters didn’t pay well, Venitsal couldn’t keep his creditors happy. And when Venitsal couldn’t keep his creditors happy, they threatened to kill him and his friends, which was only fair, he supposed. Everyone has their livelihood, and their reputation to maintain, for better or worse. It was fair, but it was also troubling. A hand shoved his thigh upwards, and for a second he lost his grip on the rope ladder he had been climbing for the past half an hour, deep in his troubled. His hands scrabbled for purchase, and tangled themselves in the rungs and ropes such that he didn’t tumbled to his own death somewhere in the Neluntian countryside far below. He scowled over his shoulder at his assailant, who scowled right back up at him with what Venitsal would have to admit was considerably more natural menace. “What the fuck are you doing?” Venitsal asked, resuming his steady ascent. “Hurrying you up,” Ben replied matter-of-factly. “It’s fucking freezing.” “Where am I supposed to go?” Venitsal gestured to the climber directly above him, struggling with a backpack of candlesticks that he had probably stolen. “Up,” Ben said, unhelpfully. Sometimes Venitsal wasn’t particularly troubled by threats to his friends. “We’re nearly there,” Venitsal promised the moody Mughannean, wincing slightly as the exhausted trader above him swung in the wind. “Practice your strong, silent type routine.” Venitsal should probably have predicted the immediate shove to his thigh, but at least Ben also adopted the silent part of his suggestion. They were indeed near the top of the ladder, and soon made it up onto the platform. Venitsal waved away the panhandlers and moochers offering him refreshments or a friendly pickpocketing after a long climb and sought out the ladder’s owner, warning him that he and his greedy counterpart down on the ground were allowing too many climbers on at once, and that they’ll see a big drop in their profits when the ladder gives way under their weight. Ben led him away, telling him that he was wasting his time expecting sense from those leeches, and the two of them picked their way through the early afternoon murk towards their home. Norbil met Venitsal’s eyes as they entered Lugil’s inn, before his gaze slid over to his new friend: a small, slight woman wearing an expensive but unshowy stola and veil that she likely thought disguised her as a native of the Underbelly, but this girl could be wearing nothing but slave shit and her posture and poise would still mark her out as Roaman nobility, perhaps even of Familial blood. What in the world was she doing down here, not least in person – and alone – rather than sending a slave or servant as an intermediary? Not that he was going to turn his nose up at good money from up top. No wonder Norbil looked nervous babysitting her. His junior associate stood up to make introductions, but Venitsal strode over confidently and introduced himself confidently. “Venitsal,” he offered his right hand whilst placing his left on his heart. “May the gods smile upon this meeting.” “And each after,” she stood and took his hand with an exaggerated confidence of her own. He smiled genuinely, admiring her bluster. From what he could make through her veil and her freedom of movement, she was young, probably younger than Norbil. And pretty, he reckoned, for all that was worth. “Please,” Venitsal motioned her towards his office, hoping that Norbil had tidied it up since they had left that morning. “We can speak freely in here. I hope none of the dogs gave you any trouble.” “Nothing I’m unable to handle,” she said, distracted by Ben over Venitsal’s shoulder. “Is he yours?” “Benabba is with me, yes. He’ll watch the door for us,” Venitsal motioned again, maintaining his smile. “He’s magnificent,” she said, turning her head to inspect his stature. “How much did you pay for him?” Venitsal didn’t have to look around to feel Ben stiffen up at the question, but was sure that his partner would keep his cool. He knew that bristle all too well, and how to move past it, smile intact. “Actually, Ben is a freed man. He used to be a gladiator – quite a famous one, in fact – until he was freed during the Home War as a little stunt to restore public confidence in slaves.” “My apologies, Benabba,” the girl said, striking an impressively diplomatic balance between genuine contrition and entitled evasion of guilt. “For the assumption, that is. I’m sure your skills in the arena more than merited your freedom, regardless of the political situation.” “It’s nothing,” Ben lied. Venitsal resisted glancing him a thanks. They had known each other long enough that he hoped he didn’t need to. “Please have a seat,” Venitsal motioned to his office for a third time, nothing that he still didn’t know the girls’ name, and therefore neither did Norbil. This wasn’t usual. “I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same to you,” she said, but at least she moved inside. Venitsal followed her in, taking off his cloak and hanging it up on the far side of the thin wooden table which served as his desk. Norbil brought in Ben’s cloak and hung it up as the Mughannean took up his position on the far side of the door, which Norbil duly closed. “It’s fine by me,” Venitsal said, tugging the creases in his tunic out as he places a hand on the back of his seat. He wasn’t particularly interested in her power games – she wasn’t much taller stood up than she was sat down anyway, “as long as you don’t mind me sitting down. I’ve just had a long climb, you see.” “Suit yourself,” she said. He gave her a look, a smile, and then thumped the damp rock ceiling above them with the bottom of his fist. The spots of fungus that grew there responded with a distant blue-green glow which spread out slowly along previously invisible tendrils, bringing additional illumination into the candlelit office. She said nothing, her eyes obscured behind her veil, but he was fairly sure from her stilted reaction she had never seen glowshrooms before. He sat down at his desk. Norbil was stood at the door, looking unsure of what to do, so Venitsal flashed his smile at the kid to reassure him that everything was under control, then turned his attention back to his anonymous client. “So…” he said, inviting her to begin talking business. She didn’t take him up immediately – something flashed across her face behind that veil of hers, but whether it was hesitation or frustration or something else entirely was, well, veiled. “Firstly,” she said authoritatively, “do you know the name Amas Candoam?” He did immediately, of course, but squinted as if he had to pick her out of a much larger list of clients. “Caiacal’s Amas Candoam?” he ventured, looking for unnecessary confirmation from Norbil, who nodded evenly. “Did she recommend our services?” “What did you do for her?” she asked. Oh, she was trying to confirm his identity. Smart, but dumb. “If my memory serves me correctly,” which it always did, “she needed someone to find her favourite cook and her scullery maid, who had run away together. She had tried some of my competitors up top, but they lacked my skills and experience.” “Because you were a slave,” she said, catching him off-guard. “I saw how you reacted when I called Benabba a slave outside,” she answered his unspoken question. Venitsal could have sworn that Norbil’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile, but his junior associate said nothing as he glanced over at his momentarily wrong-footed senior. “I was,” Venitsal nodded, regathering his composure. “Long ago.” “And you know what happened to the cook and the maid,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Everyone knows what happens to slaves who run away,” he said flatly. “Everyone knows what happens to slaves who run away and are caught,” she corrected him. “Maybe they shouldn’t run away, then,” he offered. He hadn’t, and he wasn’t here to be judged by her. “Can I offer you a little bit of advice, lady, as you’re obviously new to this? Establish the identity of who you are talking to before you lock yourself alone in a small room with them.” And don’t antagonise them once you have. “I am Venitsal, slave-hunter for hire. I caught your friend’s slaves, and they saw justice. Now, do we have a slave you want us to find, or did you come down here to pass judgement on us? Because, trust me, there are far worse people down here you would do better to direct your damnation towards, let alone the paragons inhabiting those palaces up where you come from.” He didn’t need to look at Norbil to see his admonishing look. He had let this girl get under his skin, just like she wanted. His desperation was showing; never let your desperation show. She was standing there smugly, relishing her little victory. He allowed himself a few moments to compose himself again, determined not to speak next. She would give him a name, or she could drop through the floor for all he cared, money or no money. At least he would die with his dignity. “Teleron,” she said. She sat down, drawing her stola around her legs gracefully. “I would have you find a man named Teleron.” “Issycrian?” Venitsal guessed from his name. The client shrugged in a way that indicated that she would be guessing too. “And how long has he been missing?” “I don’t know,” she stated bluntly. Venitsal spared a glance over to Norbil and back. “You don’t know?” “I don’t know.” She had the nerve to sound irritated at the question. “Hours? Days?” Venitsal waved a hand around as if trying to reel an answer out of her. “Years?” “I don’t know,” she repeated slowly. “This is not something that I know.” “That isn’t especially helpful, I’m afraid,” Venitsal said, tapping the table with his middle finger. “So he could quite conceivably be anywhere. He could be at the thousand courts of the Empyreal Dragons for all we know.” “That’s unlikely,” she replied, unamused by his fancies. “I believe that he is in or around Roam.” “You believe,” Venitsal nodded. “Why?” “I can’t say,” she said. “You can’t say, or you won’t say?” Venitsal pressed. “What difference does it make to you?” she asked sharply. Venitsal balked, shaking his head. “To be honest, darling, between your don’ts, cant’s and won’ts, I’m wondering if you even want us to find your slave,” he met her sharpness thrust for thrust. “It’s just me and Norbil here, and Ben at a stretch, though he scares most sensible people; we can’t carry out a census of the whole Republic. The information you give us is all we have to go on, so withholding any details – let alone all the details – makes our job a lot harder, and gives your slave a longer head-start on us. We’re on your side here.” “You’re in my employ,” she corrected him. “Not yet, we’re not,” he countered. “I’ve turned down jobs before.” “And you have a line of potential clients just beating down your door, I’m sure,” she said, tilting her head. “I appreciate that this isn’t a lot to go on, and I’m willing to compensate you for the inconvenience.” “It’s not just the money,” he started, but stopped himself. She didn’t need to know about the real threat of who might beat down his door any day now. “So your slave is just hanging around Roam, you believe? Why? Does he have a boy here?” “He might,” she said, though she wasn’t thinking about that. She was worrying her bottom lip under her veil, preparing to pick her words. He shifted his body to appear less defensive; more accommodating. He needed this haughty bitch to give him something, so that he could find her slave, so that he could take her money and hopefully never see her again. “You keep assuming something that I haven’t said,” she said. “Two things, in fact.” Venitsal backtracked through their conversation in quick march, finding much of it as irritating as he had the first time. “That he’s Issycrian? Or gay?” The one had seemed fairly safe given the other. “That he’s my slave,” she said. Venitsal felt his eye twitch. “And the other?” “That he has run away.” Venitsal wrapped his lips around his teeth as he processed these revelations. Norbil was frowning down at the top of the veiled woman’s head like he was trying to see through to her brain. “Sweetness, I think there has been a misunderstanding,” Venitsal said, drawing himself forward and matching up his fingertips on the table. “Beyond your patronising tone?” she asked tartly. “I am a slave hunter,” he continued, “not a slave dealer or a talent scout. When a slave runs away, their master pays me to find them and bring them back. That is it. I don’t snoop on the slaves of third parties, or antagonise potential clients by stealing their property, or whatever it is you think that you are hiring me to do.” “And why do you do that?” she asked patiently. He considered the question. It wasn’t one he liked looking at very often. “Because I’m good at it,” he said. “You’re a bad liar,” she shook her head. “Now listen here,” he felt his knuckles tense. “You come to my world, don’t tell me your name or show me your face and try to hire me to do something I don’t do, whilst telling me none of the details that would let me do it even if I wanted to, and you call me a liar?” “I never said that I wasn’t a liar,” she said calmly, “just that you are a bad one.” “And you think that this is how you start a business relationship?” “Our relationship is up to you, as you said,” she turned one hand over on her lap to show him her delicate little palm. “I’ve said that I am sympathetic to the unorthodox nature of my request and am perfectly willing to generously offset those unorthodoxies. That sounds like good business to me, but perhaps I was mistaken in my assumptions.” He mulled over her proposal. “Just so you know, none of the women down here wear a veil, so if you were trying to be inconspicuous, you could not be doing a worse job,” he said, venting a little as his conscience churned. “It has its advantages, regardless,” she said. “I can’t do business with someone whose identity I don’t know,” Venitsal blew out a sigh and leaned back, feeling his defences waver. “Even beyond the personal misgivings, the practicalities of it…” “I’ll make regular visits,” she said. “Anonymously. You tell me what you have found. I pay you for your work. If you find Teleron, you bring him here for me when I come, or have him waiting. I pay you. It’s not particularly impractical, Venitsal.” She had him quibbling on details. It was like his balls were in her hand, and he hadn’t noticed. “Whose slave is he?” “I don’t know,” she said, her voice and her demeanour suggesting a smile. Fuck. “Any guesses?” “A few.” “It won’t take me a day to find out who you are, you know?” he said, his voice roughening slightly. “I would hope not,” she replied. “Think of it as a first hurdle. I’m not afraid of you, Venitsal.” “No,” he agreed. “You’re not.” But she was afraid of something, or more likely someone. People didn’t talk about fear otherwise. “But if you intrude on my life outside this office, I will have you killed, do you understand me?” Her voice was like a steel sword sheathed in silk. Venitsal wasn’t afraid of her, but he did believe that she meant every word. “I understand. Shall we discuss payment?” “Double the figure in your head,” she lifted her palm up as if gold were about to materialise from it. “How does that work, exactly?” he chortled. “It’s simple,” she said, standing as if they had concluded negotiations. “You’re a principled man. Norbil can help you with the sums, I’m sure. Double it again, if you must.” The boy smirked, stepping out of her way to the door. Venitsal stood up too. She gathered her stola close to her, anticipating the winds outside the inn. “Don’t follow me,” she said, as if she were disappointed that they had forced her to say. Venitsal nodded, happy to honour the request. He didn’t remember agreeing to take on this job at any point, and studied what little of this girl that he could see as Norbil opened the door for her. “Live well,” he said, overcome with a curious sense of solemnity. She turned her head to look at him, her veil pooling over her shoulder. “Die well,” she responded, the traditional farewell for Roaman men taking on a sadness from behind her veil that its usual, thoughtless use had long robbed it of. And she was gone. Venitsal sat down, exhausted. Ben poked his head into the office, then followed Norbil back in once the boy had seen the client out at the inn door. “Shut the door,” Venitsal said, rubbing at his eyes. “What did she do to him?” Ben asked Norbil as he complied. “It was brutal,” Norbil said. Venitsal gave him an imploring look. “You’ve never seen Ven be eviscerated by a pretty girl before?” Ben tutted, stretching his chest out, his dark, wiry arms pressing against the walls of the suddenly very cramped office. “She was wearing a veil!” Venitsal protested. “Come on,” Ben chided him, his big yellow teeth showing. “There is a chance that she was pretty under there, which is more than enough to snare you. Then it’s just a matter of time.” The former gladiator mimed the killing blow from the trident he had once wielded so expertly. “The money,” Venitsal said ineloquently in his defence. “This one job could save all of us from” he mimicked Ben’s motions. “It’s not all about jokes and tits.” “Just mostly,” Ben shoved Norbil playfully. He did like to do that. “What’s the job?” “Unusual,” Venitsal said, his mood dark, his neck prickling. “An Issycrian slave named Teleron,” Norbil said more helpfully. “Not hers, not escaped and whereabouts unknown.” His two associates looked over at him, his wave of unease clearly troubling them. “Everything okay?” Ben asked, his black eyes flicking to and fro between Venitsal’s own. “She’s not telling us something,” he muttered. “She hardly told us anything,” Norbil said. “Something bigger,” Venitsal tapped on the desk three times with his third finger, biting down on his tongue as if he could work out what it was with just a little more concentration. “About her, not Teleron.” “She’s not the job,” Ben reminded him. “She’s the client.” The Mughannean looked genuinely concerned at Venitsal’s line of thinking, and the dark places that it might lead. You can’t save her, said his eyes. Venitsal looked away, nodding. Ben was right, as usual. It was an annoying trait for the muscle to have, but they had learned to trust one another over the past five years. “You’re right,” Venitsal nodded, using the heel of his hand to lever himself back up to standing. “I’m starving.” Category:Chapter Category:Cortisy POV Chapter Category:Venitsal POV Chapter